Phthisis
by Starliteyes17
Summary: A missing warlock's spell leaves Sam losing himself and Dean frantically working to save him before it's too late. Unfortunately, time is running out.
1. Chapter 1

**Phthisis **

Summary: Phthsis: thahy-sis, noun: a wasting away; a decaying of the body.

Warnings: Language, Schmoop, Angst, Decimation of Dimples and Other Fine Things

A/N: I have to stop reading Edgar Allen Poe. He has a bad habit of putting rarely-used, hard-to-pronounce words in my brain, and then ideas like this fester until I have to spill it on a page or risk combustion.

---

Things had been going smoothly until Dean overturned the dude's altar. As soon as the candles, urns and Satanic spells hit the ground, the warlock currently being held in Sam's grip went wild.

"You have no right! No _right_!" he screamed, slinging himself back and forth, dust clouds rising from the basement floor as his feet scraped.

"Ah, shut up," Dean crowed, smashing one of the more ominous-looking glass bottles to bits with a crowbar. Pausing, he glanced over at the ruffled young man, looking him up and down. "You know, you were selling your soul to demons by getting involved in this crap. We're just saving your life here."

The handsome young man in Sam's arms stopped struggling and went limp. His seething gaze slowly lifted from the ruined altar lying in pieces on the cement to Dean's face. "It was worth it," he whispered. "They couldn't stop looking at me. She, she _wanted_ me. _Me_."

Dean's eyebrows rose. "You mean you _knew_ you were damning yourself, and you still went through with it?" He smashed another bowl, full of feathers and dirt and god knew what else. "Man, that's messed up. And dude, who is _she_? Don't tell me there's a witch we have to take care of too."

Just then the warlock screamed, and began to seize. Sam looked alarmed, but didn't let go as the guy bucked, his knees falling out from under him. Dean darted forward, not sure if Sam needed protection but prepared to give it either way. Just as he touched the guy's arm, ready to tear him away from Sam, there was a snap in the air and an unseen force pushed him down on his butt.

"Damn," he said, rubbing his rump grumpily as he stood. He glanced over at Sam, who besides looking slightly confused seemed unharmed. Cracking his neck, he glanced at the warlock, and then glanced again, his eyes widening.

The handsome young man was no longer. The thick blonde hair had disappeared from his head, leaving him with barely a wisp of strands left. His dazzling blue eyes turned to a dull muddy brown, and his heart-shaped full lips were now thin and pale, with one yellowing crooked tooth sticking out. His face was covered with scars and warts. He no longer looked twenty-five; he hardly passed for fifty, what with the wrinkles and double-chin. He coughed and gasped, staring hard at Dean. "You'll regret this," he said in a raspy, vaguely Russian accent, one that was a far cry from the silky western American one he'd had only moments before. "You'll regret it, you will."

With a ferocious strength Dean didn't expect from the newly haggard man, the warlock suddenly twisted in Sam's arms, his eyes level with Sam's mouth. Then he leaned forward and bit him on the neck.

"Son of a _bitch_!" Dean yelled, rushing forward just as Sam let out a startled whimper. He began to drop to the ground and his hold on the warlock loosened.

The man backed away quickly, his sneer drenched in blood. "Take a good look at him," the man triumphantly hissed at Dean. "Won't be long before the sight will make even his mother scream in horror."

Before Dean could grab him and kick the shit out of him like he planned on, the man flew up the stairs.

At that moment Dean had two choices – go after the warlock, or check Sam. There was really only once choice. He heard the front door slam open just as he pulled Sam up to lean against the wall, pressing both of his hands to his brother's neck – one to check Sam's pulse, the other to check the damage.

"Sammy?" he asked as he looked at the bite. It was resting about three inches above Sam's collarbone, and while bloody didn't look deep enough for stitches. When Sam didn't immediately answer, Dean moved his hand to Sam's face, patting it gently. "Sammy, you with me?"

Sam groaned, his eyes barely slitting open. "You sure we don't have to behead this guy?" he muttered.

Dean smirked, relieved. "You tell me, geekboy. You're the one who did all the research. Don't tell me you missed him being a warlock _and_ a vamp?"

Sam's only answer was a grimace as Dean pressed the edge of his coat on Sam's wound.

"Must be losing your touch, Sammy," he added as he pulled Sam to his feet. Sam swayed a bit, but Dean's strong grip in his shoulder kept him steady.

"Bite me," Sam replied automatically, before grimacing again, though this time not from the pain.

Dean's grin was wicked. "Don't tell me you want a matching set! Dude, that's so kinky."

"You're... kinky. Whatever, let's go."

---

For all the trouble Dean had been in with witches before, he had to admit that a warlock's curse usually caused more problems. See, witches, for all their smirks and promises of doom, weren't very original. The worst Dean had ever gotten was a month with herpes and strong body odor; and despite some slight discomfort and advice from random waitresses and bartenders to take a shower, it hadn't been all that bad. Warlocks, though; they were a different story. Dean was a guy, and he knew how guys worked. Get some power, you don't just use it for yourself like the ladies; you need to _show it off_, prove what a macho man you are.

But the next morning, as Dean visually checked Sam over in the motel parking lot, he had to admit the guy looked all right. "You seem normal," he commented as they entered the one diner in town for breakfast. "Do you, ya know, feelokay?"

Sam shrugged. "Yeah, I'm a little tired I guess, but otherwise I feel fine."

Dean stared at him hard for a few seconds, but Sam didn't seem to be lying. "Good. Let me know if anything is off, though. I don't care if it's just a blister on your big toe, I wanna know."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam replied tiredly, sitting across from Dean in a booth near the front, setting up his laptop to look for more cases.

Breakfast after a hunt went as usual – Dean digging into a plate of pancakes while Sam sipped coffee and offered various hunts. Dean turned down the first two – deer mutilations and a sudden outbreak of skin rashes all in one town just didn't sound appealing – but his curiosity was peaked when Sam mentioned a series of disappearances in Oregon. All were twenty-something young men, and all had disappeared while hiking with their girlfriends in the same patch of woods just outside Salem.

"Let's do the Oregon one. I'm sure the girlfriends will need some _consoling_, if you catch my drift," Dean said when Sam finished explaining.

"Do you ever think of anything else, _ever_, Dean?" Sam said, shutting his laptop closed.

Dean tried to look offended. "According to Cosmo, I only think about it every six minutes, so you can just shut your piehole. Besides, it's not my fault the women can't help but love me. It's a natural talent."

"More like a natural disaster," Sam quipped, smirking at Dean as he turned to climb out of the booth. Dean opened his mouth to retort, when something caught his eye. Actually, more like a lack of something.

"Uh, Sam?"

Sam stood up, and turned to grab his computer case, not even glancing over at Dean. "Yeah?"

"Look at me and smile."

Sam froze, his eyes pinned on Dean. "What?"

"You heard me. Smile."

Sam quirked an eyebrow. "What for?"

Dean huffed angrily. They didn't have time for stupid questions - this was important. "Just do it, Sam!"

He didn't realize he'd yelled it until the entire diner fell quiet. Sam glanced around warily, before looking over at Dean and smiling. It was horribly forced, but it was all the confirmation Dean needed.

"I knew it! Damn it, I knew he did something to you!" he whispered angrily. He grabbed Sam's coat and manhandled him out of the diner, ignoring the stunned looks of the customers and staff. He didn't stop 'til they were at the Impala. Just as he was opening the passenger side door to get Sammy in it and safe, Sam wrenched his coat out of Dean's grip.

"What the hell are you talking about, Dean?" he asked frustratingly. Though his face was blank, Dean could also hear the fear evident in his tone.

He bit his lip, unsure how to go on. He finally settled on quick and brutal. "You don't have dimples, Sam."

Sam blanched. "What? What do you mean?"

"I mean, they're gone. Not there. Disappeared." Dean motioned to the passenger-side mirror. "See for yourself."

Without hesitation Sam bent his knees and learned forward to look. Dean watched in fascination as he went through every single one of his signature grins and smirks, and all turned up the same – dimple-less.

After dropping all the smiles and staring into the mirror with a frown for a couple seconds, Sam stood up and looked at Dean, perplexed. "Huh."

Dean jaw dropped. "Huh? _Huh_? I can't believe you, don't you reali- you know what, just get in the damn car."

---

"Dean, it's not that big a deal."

Dean was pacing. They'd been looking all over town for the warlock all day, but they'd come up with nothing. It didn't help that neither of them had gotten the best look at him – well, the real him.

The last hour had been spent back in the motel room, researching for possible solutions. Dean had called contacts while Sam perused the internet. Even Bobby had no ideas, except to find the warlock and force him to break the curse. Which wasn't a possibility, considering they had _no idea_ where the bastard was. Damn it, and Dean was not starting to freak out.

"What the heck, Sam? Not a _big deal_? Of course it's a big deal! The guy took your _dimples!_"

Sam shrugged. "Never cared much for them anyways. Besides, you always said they made me look like a girl."

Dean shook his head tightly. "That's not the point, Sam. The point is he _stole_ them from you! And who knows what he might take tomorrow!"

Sam paled at that, and Dean flinched. He didn't want Sam to be scared, but right now he was a little worried himself and how could his brother be so calm? He took a deep breath. "Look, Sam, that guy changed completely when I smashed his altar. Not just his dimples, but _all of him_. And I can't help but think this is only the beginning. So don't joke about this, please. This guy is _attacking_ you. We have to stop him, or else..."

Sam looked away and at the wall, but not before Dean caught the panic in his eyes. "Or else he might not stop taking 'til there's nothing left."

Dean put a hand on his brother's arm, twisting Sam so they faced each other. "That's not going to happen, Sammy," he promised him. Sam might be taller, but Dean knew he would always look up to his older brother for comfort. "We're going to figure this out," and then with a smile, "and don't worry, even without the dimples, you still look like a girl."

Sam didn't smile and he didn't answer, but his eyes told Dean everything he needed to know. Sam believed Dean, he believed _in_ Dean, and nobody – not even a vengeful ex-warlock – was going to take that away from Sam's big brother.

---

When Dean woke up the next morning, Sam was already in the shower. Dean thought about knocking on the door to see if Sam was okay, or at least not missing anything vital, but thought better of it when he saw the sea of brown strands on Sam's pillow.

When Sam walked out of the bathroom ten minutes later Dean merely glanced at him before darting his eyes away quickly, biting his lip.

"It's okay," Sam spoke quietly, and Dean automatically looked at him again, hoping Sam didn't see his flinch. "Guess I don't look so much like a girl anymore, at least."

"That's not funny, Sam," Dean said, his jaw clenching.

Sam shrugged, rubbing his hands across his newly-bald head. "I don't know, it's a little funny."

"Sam–"

"Dean, please, I don't want to talk about it. We have work to do, remember?"

Dean nodded agreeably, though inside he wasn't so sure. Normally, he was the _master_ of ignoring stuff. But this was Sammy, and Dean didn't know how long he could keep up the façade of not being too concerned about it. But Dean could tell Sam needed him to do that. And if Sam needed it, Dean would do it. That was just the way it was.

---

Twenty four hours later, they still hadn't gotten any further. They'd turned the guy's house upside-down, but found no clues as to his whereabouts. Dean had spent the day questioning the neighbors while Sam had sat in a café, ransacking the internet for any ideas as to how to break the spell and get Sam looking like _Sam _again. The best he'd found was a home-made Botox recipe and a couple good contacts for cheap plastic surgery in Mexico.

Dean was barely keeping it together. He'd managed not to mention Sam's hair loss (eyebrows, lashes and Dean didn't want to know where else) all day after Sam asked him not to say anything about it, but the morning after he had to leave the room before he smashed something to bits when Sam opened his eyes.

Because Sam's irises, his hazel orbs that changed colors depending on the light, were _gone_. Sam's pupils were like drops of black ink in an ocean of white, and for a moment Dean was sure he was possessed before the realization sank in. He promptly turned around and walked out, barely keeping a hold on his fury, finally losing it when he'd turned a corner and found an empty alleyway. After kicking the crap out of a trash bin, he felt just calm enough to go back.

Sam was still lying in bed when Dean walked in, his eyes closed. Dean knew that was for his sake, and felt ashamed at his outburst. "It's okay, Sam, you can open your eyes," he said, sitting on his own bed.

Slowly Sam complied, but kept his gaze downward as he turned to sit up too, mirroring Dean. After a few moments he said, "It's not so bad, Dean, I was expecting something far worse today to tell you the truth, and –"

"No, Sam. Don't do this again. Don't try to make it 'no big deal' again." Sam looked up at Dean, and he could tell Sam was preparing to protest, and that. was. it. "Your dimples were all you, Sam, even your hair was all it's own shade," Dean closed his eyes, and choked back a sob, "but damn it, your eyes, Sammy, those were _Mom's_. You have Mom's eye color, and he stole it, he's fuckin' taking _everything_ away from you bit by bit and he's not going to stop, so don't tell me it could have been worse, Sam. They were, those were Mom's. Just, don't."

Dean couldn't turn around and face Sam, not after that. God, he hadn't meant to say all that. He was acting like he was the one losing parts of himself, for God's sake. Sam was the one who was suffering here, not him. Dean was about to turn around and apologize, tell Sam to forget about it and never mention it again under pain of death, when he felt a hand on the back of his neck.

"Hey, c'mon," Sam whispered, gripping his neck before letting go. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't meant to come across uncaring, I didn't realize... I didn't know they were Mom's."

Dean took a moment to swallow before answering, "No, Sam. Don't be sorry. I didn't mean to go all ape-shit like that, either." He turned to in Sam's direction, rubbing his hand across his mouth, shaking his head. "I'm just getting damn angry, that's all. This is taking too long. We should have found the guy and fixed this by now, damn it."

Sam sighed. "Yeah, maybe. But we've been in tougher situations before, Dean, and we've always come through okay."

Dean bit his tongue. He could think of quite a few situations where things hadn't come out all okay, but he didn't think it was necessary to name them. "Yeah, we'll figure this one out. Just another day at the office, right?"

Sam nodded. "Right."

---

They found the body the same day. Combing through he warlock's house a second time, Sam came across a trap door underneath the livingroom rug. Upon opening the door, the smell alone should have given them enough of a hint to just call the cops, but Dean insisted on checking it out.

The body was wrapped in transparent plastic wrap. Even from the top of the small set of stairs leading down to the dirt ground, Dean could see he was bloody. Jumping down the last few steps, he flicked on his flashlight, Sam right behind him with his own.

Just then Dean started to second-guess his plan, and turned around to face his brother. "Uh, Sam, wait here for a second, okay?"

Sam looked a little offended, but he must have sense the desperation in Dean's tone because he merely nodded. Dean nodded back in reassurance before walking over to the body. With a knife he slit the wrap from the head all the way down to the feet, trying his best to ignore the smell. Then he pushed it back on both sides, revealing a body lying on it's back.

There wasn't much left. A thin veneer of what Dean assumed was some protective layer between skin and blood covered the organs. Each was arranged as it would have been had the man been alive, like some sort of psychotic science class exhibit. No limbs remained. The man was skinless and boneless. No muscles remained. All that remained of the head was the brain and eyeballs. The orbs had no irises, but Dean imagined they had once been a bright blue, perhaps with wisps of blonde hair obscuring them.

Without warning, the image of blue eyes turned to hazel, and the blonde hair darkened to a chocolate shade.

Dean barely made it outside before he threw up his breakfast and last night's take-out, Sam calling frantically after him.

"Dean, it's going to be okay, just breathe. You're okay," Dean heard over the roaring in his ears, as a gentle hand soothed his back. He was barely paying attention. A rage like he hadn't felt since right after his father's death was eating him alive. He let the feeling devour him whole, take over all his fear and doubts and wash them away, leaving behind exactly what he needed: determination and sheer power of will.

Slowly he stood up, Sam coming around from behind to face him. Dean didn't give him time to speak.

"This guy is going down, Sam. We're going to find him, and when we do, we're going to kill him. You understand me? We're going to end this."

"Dean..." Sam said.

Dean turned cold eyes on him. "If it was the other way around, what would you do, Sam?"

Sam looked down and away. "I'd kill him," he muttered. It was stated quiet and said but with just as much conviction as Dean's own declaration had been.

"We're going to do this. You gotta let me do this, Sammy."

"Yeah, Dean. Okay."

---

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy?"

They were getting ready for bed again. Another four hours after the grisly discovery had been spent looking through the house once more, with no more luck. Tired and spent, they high-tailed it back to the motel, Dean cursing under his breath the entire time. Each day they didn't find the warlock was another day Sam suffered. Dean hated not knowing how many days they had left. Another, smaller, unacknowledged part of him didn't want to know.

"You, uh..." Sam seemed to fumble, unable to find the words. With a sigh Dean came out of the bathroom and walked over to sit on his bed, across from where Sam was already lying down in his. If payback was deemed in terms of the total number of emotional chick moments, this guy would have been dead days ago.

"What is it, Sammy?"

"You think if I don't go to sleep, maybe nothing will happen?"

Dean chewed his lip, stalling. He didn't know the answer, but he knew what Sam needed to hear, and that would be enough to get him through. "I doubt it, Sammy. I think if you try to do that he'll still take something, only this time you'll have a bad memory to go with the change. You should get some rest."

Sam nodded, closing his eyes. Considering the conversation over, Dean turned off the light and got into bed. He was nearly asleep when he heard Sam call him name softly once more. "Yeah, was'it Sammy?"

"I just wanted to say thanks for putting up with me and, well, everything." There was a tense moment of silence, then, "I mean, even though you've still been a big jerk to me and a downright pain in my ass."

Dean grinned, relieved. "Shut up and let me sleep, bitch."

---

Dean woke up to someone shaking him. The room was still black, it was obviously still night, and he fumbled for a moment. He cursed and lunged for his knife, but then the familiarity of the hands gripping him so desperately had him switching trajectory and aiming for the lamp instead.

"Sammy? Sam, what's wrong?!"

The only answer was a keening sound and a few gurgles, and Dean felt Sam fall forward and bury his face in Dean's chest just as Dean managed to flick on the light.

"Sam – Sammy, look at me –"

Sam buried himself deeper, and Dean could feel small drops of wet warmth on his shirt. He wrapped his hands around Sam's shorn head, rubbing his temples soothingly, not letting himself think about how his hands were shaking. "Sammy, please, fuck, are you hurt, please just tell me– "

And then Sam finally pulled away, an animalistic scream tearing out from his throat, and Dean choked on his words. Where Sam's lips should have been, where his teeth should have been, there was now only a dark gaping hole.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I apologize for the wait. It's not easy for me to write descriptively horrific scenes, and in case you hadn't guessed from the first chapter, this is not exactly a pleasant story. So, dear reader, be warned: things are going to get even more gruesome. Hopefully the copious amounts of brotherly love make up for it!

**Phthisis**

**Chapter Two**

Dean fought back a scream. Sam's lips, his teeth – they were gone. But he couldn't think about that now.

_Focus, Dean. Sam needs you._

"Sammy, shhh, I got you," Dean said, slinging both arms up over Sam's shoulder, pulling him in again. Sam complied easily, and Dean could feel his brother's body shuddering as he collapsed into Dean's chest. "It's okay, calm down. I'm here, okay? You'll be all right, I promise."

It took a couple minutes, but finally the shivering slowed and then stopped. It took everything Dean had not to flinch when Sam pulled himself back up to look at Dean, letting him know without words that Sam was in control of himself, that they were equals again and Dean should treat him as such. Still, Dean couldn't help but worry. Sam had been _keening_. "You're not hurt? I mean, he didn't... it's just your mouth?"

Sam nodded, a slip of his tongue peaking out as Sam swiped along the edges of the lipless mouth. He could tell Sam was still freaked, but at least he was taking the time now to examine his new predicament. It was still scary to watch but far more objective than Sam had been before and much more Sam-like. That was about as okay as Dean figured he could ask Sam to be.

"Are you in pain? Do you hurt anywhere else?"

Sam shook his head again, this time far more guiltily. Dean sighed. His brother may look like Lord Voldemort, but Dean could still read his expressions like a book.

"Sam, it's okay to be scared. Hell, lately I've been doing far more freaking out than you, so really, I appreciate your efforts on my behalf. It's time for the Certified Chick-Flick Instigator to retake his title, don't you think?"

Sam cheeks brightened at that. Dean knew that if Sam still had dimples and lips and, _shit_, teeth, he'd be smiling right now. Dean grinned in return, but inside his guts were churning. He'd been scared before; but even with finding the body in the basement, it hadn't hit him until just now that his brother was heading for the same gruesome end.

Dean checked the clock: 4.26 AM. He clapped Sam on the back.

"I call first shower."

:

An hour later Dean was leaving the motel room to go grab breakfast. It had been an unspoken agreement between the brothers that Sam ought to stay inside unless absolutely necessary from now on. Without lips, Sam just looked too damn weird and for him to go anywhere without a paper bag on his head was risking unwanted attention.

Dean was unlocking the Impala when he saw the flashing lights of the ambulance coming down the street. It was a small enough town that the screeching horn which usually accompanied these emergency vehicles was shut off, probably due to the early morning hour.

He watched suspiciously as the ambulance pulled into the parking lot of the motel, parking itself four doors down. Just as they pulled in a maid walked out the door of the motel room and ushered them inside before coming to stand outside herself, covering her face in her hands.

As invitingly as he could, Dean sauntered over and put a hand on her shoulder. The lady nearly mowed him down when she suddenly wrapped her short stubby arms around his waste and began sobbing all over his coat. What was he today, a human Kleenex? Dean resisted the urge to jump away in disgust – he only ever put out the fuzzies for Sam. Then again, this was the job.

"What happened, miss?"

"Oh god, it was _terrible_." The maid pulled herself away just long enough to look up at Dean's (hopefully empathetic) face, before turning her cheek to rest against his collarbone. "The room was supposed to have been checked out of yesterday, so I was in there to clean it for new arrivals, you know? Actually I was supposed to do it yesterday, but then Chelsie – another woman who works here, real piece of work – she asked me if we could switch shifts, and I forgot to tell her I had to do this room, and..." Dean quit paying attention for a while, instead watching as the EMTs walked out with a body covered with a sheet was taken out of the room on a gurney. "But when I walked in, he was lying on the floor, all cold and dead, and his eyes were open and glassy and it was just _horrible_."

Dean put an arm awkwardly around the girl's back as she threw herself into another fit of hysterics. "Any indication of how he died?"

"Yeah, there were these diet pills and bottles all over the floor. I think he OD'ed."

Dean nodded brusquely, ready to check out of there – it was clearly not their kind of thing. Just as he was about to tell the women goodbye, a breeze picked up and the sheet blew over, uncovering the man's face. Dean stared in shock for a moment, before literally shoving the maid away from him. "Son of a _bitch_!"

Dean eyes stayed on the face until the sheet awkwardly recovered it again. "Sir?" one of the technicians said to him. "Did you, uh, know the deceased?"

Dean gave him an awkward look, only to have it dawn on him belatedly how curiously everyone was looking at him. "He, um, no, not really. He gave me a cigarette yesterday when I had smoked the last of my pack. I never got to return the favor," Dean tried to explain hurriedly, glancing over at the maid. She was eyeing him with great distaste as she wiped at her eyes. Dean wanted to tell her she was getting mascara all over her cheeks, but decided against it when he realized she probably also got the mascara all over his leather coat too. _Damn_.

The technicians raised their eyebrows at his explanation but inquired no further as they set to work preparing the body for the transfer.

"Gotta go," Dean said to nobody in particular as he practically skipped away and back to the room.

"Sam, we got a problem," he said as soon as he opened the door. Sam looked up from where his face was buried in the laptop, watching as Dean rambled over and threw himself haphazardly into the chair opposite. "The warlock's dead."

Sam stood up as if on command, and quickly began pacing. After a few seconds he sat back down, staring intently at Dean. The question was clear.

"He committed suicide, probably yesterday. The body was just discovered by one of the maids."

Sam turned back to the laptop, and Dean could hear him furiously typing before he swiveled it in Dean's direction. Dean saw it was open to a blank Word document, save for a sentence.

_You mean he was here this whole time?_

Dean bit his cheek. "Yes, damn it. He was probably staying here all this week, and he probably knew we were here too. I'm sure he assumed we would never think to look for him right under our noses. Damn it, all this time spent searching and the asshole was right here!"

Sam sat and calmly continued typing as Dean continued a rant of curses. He finally stopped when Sam turned the laptop back to him.

_Well, nothing we can do about that now. How did you know it was him? Did he have my hair or something, or did he look like himself?_

Dean sighed. "The sheet over his face came up when the ambulance technicians were loading him. He looked like himself." Dean paused. "Hey, do you think maybe if he's dead you'll get everything back?"

Sam seemed to consider this.

_It's possible, but I doubt it. The guy we found in the basement didn't have all of his body back, and we saw the warlock lose those when we broke his spell. My guess is we need to do a ritual to stop the change. His death might stop me from losing anything else, though._

Dean tapped at the table before standing up. It wasn't the best outcome – he'd have really liked to kill the guy himself, after he told them how to save Sam of course – but if the warlock being dead now meant Sam wasn't in danger of losing anything else, Dean could be satisfied. Any outcome with Sam not dying and preferably intact was a win in his book, after all. Perhaps now they'd have more time to figure out how to get Sam looking like himself again, and when they did, they could finally put this shitty situation behind them.

:

Shopping for food someone without lips and teeth could eat wasn't as easy as Dean had first assumed. He'd taken two laps around the grocery store, and so far he had found two large jars of apple-flavored baby food, bananas, three cans of microwavable tomato soup, and a plastic water-bottle with a built-in straw. He'd also grabbed two cans of some special vitamin-enhanced juice for senior citizens, under the guise that Sam wouldn't be getting as many nutritious elements in his admittedly crappier diet. He couldn't wait to see Sam's look when he pulled them out of the bag.

Dean couldn't help but shuffle his feet waiting in line. He'd already been gone over an hour, and frankly even leaving Sam for fifteen minutes at a time was concerning to him right now. What if Sam decided to take a nap, and another part of him disappeared? What if Sam decided to take a shower and slipped and hurt himself? Who would he call out for? _How_ would he call out at all?

Dean knew he was being slightly ridiculous. Sam could take care of himself – Dad and Dean had spent over eighteen years making sure of that. But still, Sam would always be Dean's responsibility, no matter how strong and skilled he was. And there was no doubting that Sam was definitely not at his best right now anyways; the kid was trying hard not to freak out, but Dean could see it coming anyways. He half-wished Sam would just let it out all at once, chick moment be damned. This slow-burn to the inevitable was something Dean just wasn't patient enough for.

Checking his watch again as he finally came to the front of the line, Dean glanced up at the row of newspapers. EIGHTH MAN DISAPPEARS IN OREGON WILDERNESS. SEARCHERS BAFFLED.

"Shit," Dean muttered testily, then grinned apologetically when he noticed the wide-eyed look the teenage cashier was giving him. Damn, if things had been going the way he was wanting them to, they'd have been in Oregon two days ago and would probably already have finished that hunt up by now. And whoever the eighth missing man was, he would be sitting at home showing off all his camping photos to his family right now, instead of strung up by a wendigo or dragged off by a spirit or whatever-the-hell was in those woods.

Grabbing his groceries, Dean stalked out to the Impala and within three minutes arrived back at the motel. Unlocking the door, he nearly dropped the plastic bags when he realized the room was empty.

"Sam?" he called, shuffling over to the nearest bed and setting the food down. He was immediately answered when a hand half-heartedly waved out of the open bathroom door, before being tucked back inside.

Quirking an eyebrow, Dean casually walked to the edge of the door, propping himself against the wall next to the hinge. "What are you doing in here without the light on?" he asked into the dark room, flipping the switch.

Sam was standing in the middle of the bathroom, dressed in only his boxers. He was situated directly in the front of the mirror, and his iris-less eyes didn't so much as glance in Dean's direction as he seemingly continued to stare himself down.

Dean was completely confused. "Sammy. Sam? Look at me, man. What are you doing?" He made a move to grab at his brother's elbow, but before he could Sam pulled away. Still not looking at Dean, Sam pulled a hand up to his face and pointed at his nose. Then pulling up the second arm, he moved both of his hands to lightly tap his ears. Moving his arms down, he lightly hugged himself by grasping his elbows, followed by leaning forward and touching in sequence his thighs, knees and feet.

Dean got it the moment Sam slapped at his toes. Grabbing at his brother's forearm, he bitingly spat, "This is stupid and you know it."

Rigidly lifting himself back up to stand, Sam turned to Dean quickly but very tensely, as if he was preparing for an argument. Dean shook his head slightly. "I'm not fighting with you, Sam. I mean, all I'd get is the silent treatment anyways and it's just not nearly as fun to tease you about it when you can't, you know, _talk at all_."

Sam stuck out his chin. Dean sighed.

"Sam, it's not doing anybody any good to count how many days are left in the cycle. We have no idea, and you know it. I mean, you might wake up tomorrow with your whole hand gone, or maybe it'll just be one finger. It could be three days or it could be thirty. Don't be an idiot and try to count it out, man. All it's going to do is make you act even more emo and shit, and frankly? I don't want to deal with that. I _can't_ really deal with that right now."

Sam looked down at the floor morosely, but jerked when Dean tapped at his cheek.

"See, when you do that? That whole 'look-away-and-be-broody-like-a-teen-soap-opera-close-up' thing? That totally counts as acting like a girl, man," Dean pointed a finger in his Sam's face and tapped on his nose for emphasis, "So. don't. do. it."

Sam playfully slapped Dean's hand away and shrugged past him to the main room, walking straight over to stand by the television. He motioned to the screen and gave Dean a pointed look.

Dean narrowed his eyes and tried not to look embarrassed. "So what if I watch Oprah? You're still the drama queen of the family, _Samantha_. And besides, that episode where she gave away all those cars to those needy families? I saw you watching it from behind the laptop screen. Don't deny it."

:

They waited until dusk fell. As soon as Sam finished slurping at his tomato soup dinner – Dean had spent the entire time laughing and asking him if he needed a bib in case he dribbled a bit – they quietly slipped out and walked the four rooms over to the warlock's room. By now the place was silent, the police and coroners having cleared out hours ago.

Dean chuckled as he slit the POLICE – DO NOT ENTER yellow tape. "Gotta love the efforts of the men in blue, right Sammy?" he asked, glancing down at his brother, who was busy breaking into the door's lock.

Sam didn't react, just slowly pushed the door open and stealthily slid inside, Dean right behind him. As soon as they both cleared the threshold, Dean closed the door and simultaneously two flashlights clicked on.

"Okay, so, I'm sure the police took a look around too, but I bet they're waiting to clear things out until they contact family," Dean said. "You know the drill."

Sam nodded, and moved to the bathroom to begin searching, while Dean started at the corner of the door. For the most part, the place was pretty typical. Dean found some empty food containers, and in one special case a not-so-empty one that appeared to have mold growing around the edges. Dean didn't check what was inside of it, but moved over past the table and to the bed, where a lone black duffel sat.

"What'd you have in here, you sonuvabitch?" Dean muttered as he pulled the zipper open. "Better be some answers, or else you can bet I'll be resurrecting your ass just so I can send you back to Hell again myself."

Pulling out clothes and some toiletries, Dean was disappointed to find nothing else. Just as he was about to drop it to the floor and continue his search, Sam appeared beside him and took the bag. Turning it upside down, Sam pointed to a hidden flap covering a second zipper on the very bottom of the bag. As soon as he had fully unzipped it, a thin wooden box tumbled out. It looked to be made of mahogany and was fashioned with an ornately carved pentagram on the top.

"That's my boy," Dean remarked, honestly impressed. He slapped his brother on the back, and Sam merely shrugged his shoulders in response. Dean grinned, knowing it meant his brother truly appreciated the praise.

Dean clutched the box under his jacket and went to do a quick once-over of the parking lot while Sam tidied up the room and rubbed down both the inside and outside door knobs for fingerprints. When the coast seemed clear, they quietly exited the room and calmly entered their own.

The moment Sam closed the door, Dean immediately unclasped the box and wasn't surprised when a few scrolls tied with ribbon tumbled out. "Jackpot, Sammy! I bet this is the bastard's Spell Central, right here," he said, quickly untying the ribbons and smoothing out the thin papers.

But upon getting a good look at the text, Dean wanted to hit a wall. "Sam, what the hell is that? Because it's definitely not English or Latin."

Sam held up one the scrolls, examining it closely. After a couple minutes, he carefully set down the paper and rubbed at his chin for a few more moments. He looked slightly affronted when Dean pinched his arm, but when he noticed Dean's purposely quirked eyebrow, rolled his eyes and grabbed the nearest pencil and notepad, writing frantically.

_I think it's Ancient Sumerian. Pastor Jim only had a few texts that old, so I never got much chance to study it. _

"So what's this random guy doing with it?"

_I don't know. But you can bet it's nothing good – this stuff is very old, very powerful, and usually very dark stuff. _

"Great. I hate it when stupid people get a hold of dark stuff. Okay, so neither of us can translate it, and I highly doubt there's anyone around here who can do much better. So what's the plan, Einstein?"

Sam rolled his eyes again, before playfully tapping at Dean's forehead.

Dean managed to look affronted, but even he knew it had been a stupid question. "Yeah, yeah. Bobby should really have some office hours just for us, don't you think?"

:

Dean had grappled for a while with calling Bobby and explaining the situation first, but in the end he decided to just fax copies of the text to Singer's Salvage from the motel office fax machine. It's not that Dean didn't want to talk to Bobby; it was that he knew if he told Bobby what was the going on, the man would drop everything in a second and drive out there to help them in person. If Dean didn't call, Bobby would assume the hunt wasn't a personal issue for the Winchesters. He'd still get the translation and research done just as promptly, but without the worry about the brothers. Dean wasn't stupid – he knew Bobby loved him and Sam like sons. Knowing what Sam was going through right now would only make Bobby lose sleep, and complicate the matter.

Returning to the motel room, Dean found Sam already lying in bed and snoring. Apparently the headway they made tonight had left Sam feeling not just tired but also more confident. Dean was glad that Sam felt better again – after all, Dean had always known they'd get this fixed before it was too late, so it's not like there was anything to really worry about anyways, right?

Right.

:

Dean was woken up by the silence. The room was no longer black, but it was definitely still early morning. Rubbing at his eyes, Dean immediately turned to his brother's bed. He was both relieved and concerned to find Sam still in bed and staring at him, the whites of his eyes glinting in the darkness.

"Hey, Sammy."

"D'n." It was whispered and fumbled, but Dean knew it was his name. It was also a plea. He pulled his legs out of bed, before coming to kneel next to Sam's bed.

"How you doing, Sammy? You okay?"

Sam shook his head back and forth, and Dean didn't even register that his brother was crying until he wiped away a tear from the corner of Sam's face. "D'n," Sam said again, as if it was the only word he knew. In some ways, Dean supposed it was the only one his little brother needed to know.

"Hey, hey, I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. Let's get you up. Can you sit up?"

Sam nodded, but at the same time sent Dean an apologetic look. Dean didn't really want to know why, but he found out a moment later anyways.

Using only his abdominal muscles, Sam pulled himself up as though doing a sit-up. As soon as the covers fell away, Dean reeled slightly backwards in surprise. Sam's arms were gone. Not just his fingers or his hands, but all the way up to his shoulder sockets.

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean said instinctively, though his lips and tongue felt numb. "It's going to be fine."

Dean knew if he was this close to freaking out, Sam had to be on the brink of hyperventilation with his panic. Immediately moving forward, Dean sat down behind his brother and pulled Sam's armless torso against his chest. Gently he began to stroke Sam's temples and mumble random stories from their childhood, mixing in comforting assurances at random intervals. Even when Sam's breathing evened back out into sleep again, Dean continued talking, knowing that somehow, even unconscious, the sound of his voice would comfort Sammy.

Sometime later Dean registered a vibrating sound, and grabbed his phone from the nightstand.

"Yeah," he answered quietly.

"_Dean, it's Bobby. I got some info for you boys on those rituals you sent."_

Glancing down at Sam to make sure he was still asleep, Dean said, "Go on."

"_There were three rituals included in the scrolls, and all of them are powerful stuff. So far I've only gotten the first one translated for you, but I figured I'd get each one to you as I got 'em figured out."_

Dean nodded. "Yeah, thanks Bobby. What's this one for?"

"_It's a ritual for the relocation of the physical body."_

"Yeah, that makes sense. The warlock we're dealing with was stealing other people's body parts and exchanging them for his own, so I'm not surprised. Kinda like upgrading to a new and improved model, but without all the silicone."

"_Yeah, but it doesn't just stop there, it gets a whole lot weirder. There's one line about the head not having all the dressings, like lips or eyes or skin, until the skull is fully attached. And the last line makes no sense to me."_

Dean bit his lip worriedly. "What's it say?"

"'_And may it be this metamorphosis occur from he who has not lifted the veil to he who has passed beyond the veil of the earth-land.' But the ink of that last line is smudged – if I didn't know better, I'd say it was only written a few days ago."_

Dean felt his stomach drop to his toes. It was all he could do not to drop the phone.

"Bobby, I gotta go. Thanks."

"_Dean?"_

"I'll talk to you soon." Flipping his phone shut, Dean barely managed to calmly set it down on the nightstand, before slowly extracting himself from underneath Sam. But Sam, stealthy hunter that he was, immediately awoke and whimpered when he realized he didn't have any arms.

Dean kneeled down next to him. "Hey Sam, there's something I gotta go do right now, and I need you to stay here. Can you do that?"

Sam didn't even hesitate, just frantically shook his head back and forth. Dean could tell it wasn't because he was scared for himself – he was worried about whatever Dean was going to go do. Dean knew it was one of his tells – if he didn't explain where he was going on the first round, then you could bet it wasn't anyplace good.

Mentally cursing himself for not lying when he'd stood the chance of being believed, Dean placated, "Okay, okay, Sammy. I won't go. Hey, you want some breakfast? I make a mean apple-flavored jelly dish. It was your favorite about twenty-odd years ago, anyways."

Sam nodded, and Dean walked over to the table, uncapping one of the jars. "It'll be all right, Sam," Dean said as he casually grabbed some pills from the first aid kit next to the grocery bags and began crumbing them up in the baby food. "Don't worry, I'll get this figured out. You'll be back to normal before you can say, 'I'm a whiny bitch who should wax the Impala for my awesome big brother every morning.'"

Turning back to Sam, he helped his brother to sit up against the headboard and slowly fed him the concoction, never letting up on his verbal comforting. Sam didn't look at him or let him know in any way, but Dean could tell it helped. He wasn't surprised when he came out of the shower ten minutes after they'd finished and found Sam fast asleep once more.

After double-checking the salt lines around the room and the protection symbols etched on the door and window panes, Dean cast a sideways glance at Sam before walking over and tucking him in properly. "Gotta keep warm, little brother," he whispered, smoothing his hand on Sam's cheek. "Stay safe and asleep. I'll be back soon, I promise."

He shut the door quietly behind him and thoroughly locked it, reminding himself that he had to do this and therefore it was stupid to feel guilty about it. There was nothing wrong with drugging your armless brother if it meant getting him back to normal, Dean told himself.

The drive over felt like it took a lot longer then last time, even if there was less traffic. Once he had parked though, it felt like it took no time at all to get from the driver's seat of the Impala, to the secret basement of the warlock's house.

No time to double-check and confirm his suspicions. There weren't any dimples, lips, hair or teeth yet, but Bobby had said the spell had a disclaimer about that, Dean was pretty sure.

But even still, there was no mistaking the muscular arms and graceful hands which were now connected to the dead body. Arms and hands that belonged to his brother, were now attached to a body that just the sight of had caused Dean to lose his dinner just a few nights ago.

God, it didn't make any sense. Why steal body parts from a live, healthy person and give them to the remains of a corpse?

As Dean buried his face in his hands, he had a feeling he definitely didn't want to know the answer.


End file.
